A League of Their Own
by CouldbeDangerous221
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock is back at 221B. Baker Street and once again bored. Tensions between John and Sherlock grow. That night, over a dispute about Sherlock's violin playing, both men leave each other's company without knowing they will both be drawn into a long and winding journey of games and deceit.
1. The Mystery of M

Chapter I

The Mystery of "M"

Airs from a violin grinded on John's ears as the wailing song of Sherlock's continued downstairs. He tried to concentrate on the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the room to drown out his flatmate's recreational pastime and instead focus on the words he was reading. Another minute passed, and John bit his lip in frustration. He could not remember a single concept of the paragraph he had just read. Sherlock's bow fluttered into a line of racing notes and ended the phrase by dragging out a series of long distorted chords.

An anguished sigh escaped John, and he snapped the newspaper he held in his hands shut. _This situation was intolerable_, he decided. Carelessly tossing the gazette on a side table, John rose and thundered down the stairs into the living room. By the window stood Sherlock, ignoring the presence of John and continuing to scrape out his song.

John inhaled a sharp breath and sidestepped with impatience before stating, "You know, I don't think I have heard silence in about forty-eight hours." It was perceivable that his flatmate did not hear him. _What on earth is wrong with him?_ John's mind flooded with exasperation. "Sherlock! Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock halted his bow, abruptly ending the song, and looked up to find John glaring at him. With a pensive air, Sherlock looked down and began a tranquil Mozart in apology. "Silence is boring John," he offered mindlessly.

"Silence," John argued, "is sanity." Sherlock made no response. "You've been up here for three days, Sherlock! Do you even realize that? Three days!" John's speech was cut off by an explosion in the room adjacent. Cautiously, he peered into the kitchen to see that Sherlock had resuming using it as his private laboratory. He noted several broken test-tubes littered the floor. "My God, Sherlock, what the hell have you done?" he called over his shoulder.

"Oh come on John how can you not get it…" He heard Sherlock mutter under his breath from the other room. The violin had completely stopped. "I'M BORED!" John turned to see Sherlock fling his instrument into its case. "Bored, John bored! Why can't anyone do the slightest most interesting thing?" he lamented.

John felt no sympathy towards his friend, instead his anger seemed to well up inside of him and turn his inner-most thought into words. "That's no excuse for you to blow up the entire flat and make everyone listen to your own personal symphony!" he burst out.

Sherlock's countenance became cold, as he regarded John. "You said you didn't mind the violin." He protested sharply.

"Well I didn't know you'd be playing a bloody production!"

Sherlock frowned, immensely displeased, "Well," he combated his flatmate's comment, "Mrs. Hudson's likes my playing very much. Do you not, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked someone over John's shoulder. John spun around and recognized their land-lady.

"Are you two having a little domestic now?" she inquired unhappily from the doorway.

John's veins throbbed in his neck, and he closed his eyes before stammering, "I—am not—we—no."

"Like I said before, dear," Mrs. Hudson assured innocently, "Mrs. Turner's got married ones. I keep telling you there's nothing wrong with it. There's all kind of sorts."

"No," John denied firmly, "No. no. Sherlock? Sherlock and I are so far from that!"

"Whatever you say, dear," Mrs. Hudson complied.

John felt he had not convinced her. "I help him pay the rent that is it!"

"Where are my cigarettes, John?" Sherlock demanded from the sofa.

John spun around, "We agreed! You've quit!"

Sherlock lifted his head from the sofa arm, "I'm bored, John. Do you not hear me? Bored! I need something to stimulate my mind." Sherlock clenched his fists in impatience. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, it's no use! Leave it!" Sherlock snapped towards his landlady.

Mrs. Hudson dropped the thing she had picked up from the floor to place onto the coffee table. "But Sherlock, the mess you've made."

Sympathy compelled John to insert himself into the situation. "He's right, Mrs. Hudson, it's not going to help much." With a kind hand, he gently pushed her to the door. "Why don't you fix us a cuppa?"

"Remember, dear, I'm not your housekeeper-" She protested through the half-closed door.

"Just my landlady, I know, I know!" he replied quickly. The latch clicked when wood hit wood. John turned from the door and studied his friend closely. Sherlock remained stretched out on the sofa, staring into space. The dark eyes that John knew so well to sparkle with intellect were dull, the price paid for lack of mental stimulation. The silence between them was deafening. John decided to let Sherlock break it, and fumed in his thoughts.

"You're angry with me." Sherlock observed quietly.

"No—no I am not-,"

Sherlock sat up and shook his head, "No," he denied, "you're angry with me, John, it's understandable. It's a righteous reaction, really. Anger is a very human instinct, I applaud you…"

"I'm not angry!" John cut him off, "I'm just—,"

"Is this what you call 'not angry'?" Sherlock retorted, "I mean, really? I'd like to see you when you are-,"

"FRUSTRATED! I'm frustrated, Sherlock! Okay?" he hit the back of the chair. "You're a very difficult person to deal with!"

Something in Sherlock's face changed. He turned from the intense focus of John's gaze. Finally he responded in a low, measured voice. "I—uh—ahem—commend your ability to deal with me so far," he paused, avoiding John's eyes. "I was—unaware of you tribulations. I trust you will find the future easier to handle."

Time froze as John watched Sherlock lower the lid of his violin case and firmly latch it shut. Sherlock prepared to go outside, shrugging into his great overcoat and wrapping his scarf around his neck loosely.

"I think I'll take a stroll before dinner," he finally addressed John in a smooth indifferent tone, laced with something John could not place.

Still motionless, John found himself asking, "Would you like a friend along?"

Sherlock graced John with a small reminiscent half-smile, and shook his head. "No, you know what," Sherlock began, striding over to the fireplace. "I'll settle for the skull tonight." Pale fingers wrapped around the bone's surface as Sherlock lifted it from the mantle to cradle it in one hand. With one last look at John, he walked out of the room, down the hallway, and out of 221 B. Baker Street, leaving John quite alone.

John stood for some seconds, trying to absorb what had just happened. Sherlock Homes had just done two things John had never expected. First, he had been civil, almost apologetic towards John, which was very uncharacteristic. John accepted that gratefully but found the second thing harder to assent.

_He left without you,_ he reflected solemnly, _he always takes you_. With that feeling John felt that a wedge had been driven between them, and immediately regretted the evening's events.

John was shocked out of his reverie by an incessant ringing from his jacket pocket. Could it be Sherlock? Perhaps he had found something to cure his boredom and needed John with him after all. If that was the case, he felt that the tension from their past conversation could be forgotten and the rift between them healed. Feeling relief from these thoughts John pulled the phone from his pocket and found the screen glowing back at him informing him of a new text message. Eagerly he opened it and discovered a surprise:

I humbly thank you for driving S. from the

house. It was getting rather dull

without him.

-M

The world spun. John laid down the phone on a side table and sat to ponder the situation. Who was "M" and why did the message seem so ominous? It could be—no. John stopped his train of thought. That was impossible. Moriarty was dead; Sherlock had seen the man blow his brains out.

"It could be Mycroft," John nursed the hypothesis aloud. But something in his head was refusing to let him believe it. Sherlock hated Mycroft. There was scant probability that the two brothers would come into contact with each other willingly without the motivation of business or crime.

Yet, John could not shake the twisting feeling in his stomach. All he could do was fervently hope for Sherlock to return to 221B quickly.

As Sherlock stepped outside into the brisk night air, he soon regretted his decision and longed to be back inside the warm flat. He shivered as he placed the skull onto the doorstep of 221 B. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. Shoving his freezing hands into his pockets, he walked away from Baker Street and into the city.

Dense fog settled around the buildings of London creating a gloomy atmosphere for Sherlock's retreat. His breath came out in short crystalline puffs from the cold night air. _What on earth made him leave the flat?_ He wondered imagining the warmth of the parlor.

Yet something compelled him to leave. Sherlock flexed his mental stimuli trying to pinpoint the exact reason. What was that unfamiliar feeling burrowing inside of him? He strained his memory, trying to remember if he had ever felt it before.

"I have angered John," Sherlock whispered under his breath. "Yet I have angered so many others before." Was this remorse?

What was John to him? It was hard for Sherlock to really explain. John was something Sherlock had never had before. Someone to talk to, someone who would listen. Someone who had an interest in what he was doing. And Sherlock craved the attentions John allowed him. He prized John's loyalty, John's readiness for adventure.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and swallowed hard. John was his only friend and he didn't want to lose that. "And that's what's so damn difficult." He blurted out to empty air. He never cared about people before. Ever. But John was different. John made life interesting. It wasn't really the equivalent of having a dog or a cat, it was more. John was his. His to have at home. No, 221B. Baker Street would not be home without John. John was like a favorite book placed in its designated place on a favorite bookshelf. Sherlock stopped his train of thought. _No, no, no_ he fiercely shook his head. Why was he comparing John to a book?

No, John was John, and John was here to stay. In the deepest corner of his stone cold heart, Sherlock did not want to be a burden for him. That's why he walked out of the flat that evening. John had wanted peace and quiet and Sherlock had wanted to give it to him.

"I cannot control my mental insomnia, but I can protect John from it." Sherlock decided, and continued to walk on his way.

John was interrupted from his thoughts by Mrs. Hudson bustling into the room with a tray of tea.

"Oh, it's alright dear," she assured him placing her hand on his shoulder. "He's probably just taking his time about coming back. Let me pour you a cuppa, now." Her slim fingers wrapped around the handle of the teakettle and she prepared him a cup.

"He's been gone for three hours." John countered, setting aside the cup that she had handed him. Should he tell her about the text he had received? No, he decided, he wouldn't worry her with it. "He could be to Piccadilly or Cardiff by now for all we know."

"Sherlock's disappeared off before," Mrs. Hudson reminded him, "You've never been worried about where he's at then."

John picked up the cup and took a sip of bitter tea. He was still unsatisfied with the course of events of the day. He wanted Sherlock back at the flat so he could talk to him.

"Is there anything else I can get you, dear?" inquired Mrs. Hudson. "Otherwise, I think I'm gonna tuck in for the night. It is rather late you know." She tilted her head towards the clock on the mantel piece.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," John responded, "Go on to bed."

"Goodnight, Doctor." She rose and swept out of the doorway, leaving John to isolation and anxiety.

John tried to empty his mind. _Nothing, think of nothing,_ he commanded his brain. _There's no problem, and there won't be_. He was just on edge today because he had fought with Sherlock.

He reached out his hand to the teapot that Mrs. Hudson had left behind and refreshed his cup. Pensively, he rotated it in his hands, savoring the warmth the porcelain emitted. He sighed. Staying awake all night wouldn't help John at all. He closed his eyes, but the image of Sherlock face as he left the flat haunted him.

A sharp buzz and a small beep shocked John from his discomfort. He looked over to the side table and saw the screen of his phone glow with life. He reached over and picked it up. Another message. John questioned whether to read it. What could be hidden by just a click of one button? Unsteadily, he opened the message.

Found. One consulting detective. The Pool. Midnight.

-M

'M'! A heavy feeling sunk in his heart. There was only one consulting detective in the world. His eyes flitted to the clock. Eleven-twenty-two. He had time. Jumping to his feet, John grabbed his jacket and ran to the hall, down the stairs, and out of 221B. to hail a cab.

The hinges on the metal door creaked as it closed behind John. The soft rippling of water sloshing against the sides of the pool walls sounded in the dimly lit scene. A blue glow radiated from the pool giving some light for John to travel by. Silence reigned in the room. He advanced onwards, his footsteps echoing through the large space. Half-way across the room John halted; the room was abandoned. No one seemed to be there. He glanced at his watch, noting that the glowing arms signaled 12:02 a.m. It was past the time. Scanning the room again, he absentmindedly scratched his gray-brown hair.

"I got your message." He said aloud to no one. "I'm here." No response. Did he think he would get one? Not really, but his heart still thudded as his blood buzzed with adrenaline. He remained frozen yet for another moment anticipating something to happen. Still nothing.

"I'm wasting my time," John muttered, turning around back to the door he had come through. But wait, he halted, what was that? A soft, yet audible sound seemed to be coming from behind the opposite door of the room. John strained his hearing to make it out.

_'Music'_ he mouthed. He was hearing music. The door slowly swung open, allowing the volume of the music to increase. A pop beat. That silly disco song.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive._ John intook a sharp breath, and slowly turned towards the music.

"Hello John. Surprised to see me?" Jim Moriarty, flesh and blood, stood in the doorway.

"Where's Sherlock?" John demanded.

Moriarty stepped into the room; the light from the water bounced off of his face and made his pale skin glow. "He's not here, John." He answered, his tone laced with simplicity.

John blinked breaking the intense eye contact Jim was regarding him with. His mind spun. "Then where is he?"

Jim shrugged, adjusting his pale gray suit jacket. "Probably on his way back to Baker Street by now." He smiled his horrible sadistic smile. John took a step away from the advancing man. Jim stopped at a respectable distance. "Come on, John, haven't you figured it out yet? If I wanted you, all I would have to do is say I had Sherlock to make you come running." John felt the trap set in, and he knew Moriarty saw it as well. "That's right Johnny boy, your life is no longer yours to live."

"What's stopping me from walking out of this building right now?"

"Seven snipers around this building and one sniper in Hyde park with his crossfires trained right on Sherlock Holmes' skull ready to blow out his famous brains with just one call from me." Jim lounged on a bench and crossed his legs. "Sit down, John, you look uncomfortable." John refused to move. "Yes, you're quite right, why would I want you if I could just kill Sherlock now?" Jim read his mind, asking his silent question for him. John nodded feeling Moriarty's eyes rove over his face quickly before he was answered, "It was almost a relief to find out Sherlock survived the fall. It was a mistake to try to kill him; I mean what was I going to do? Go back to pulling hoods over guys like Lestrade?"

"You want Sherlock to live?" John asked shocked. Jim nodded his head slowly.

"You see, John, people like Sherlock and I get bored easily. God I'm sure you have had plenty of times to deal with his insanity when he has nothing to do." He paused. "I began to think, what if Sherlock Holmes was really dead?" He looked up at John. "The world would be so boring."

"What are you going to do?"

"Play a game," Moriarty answered. "With you."

"Me?"

"See I don't want to kill Sherlock anymore, I want to burn him. Make his life miserable."

"How are you ever going to be assured that I'm going to do what you want?"

"Because if you don't, the game is over, and I kill Sherlock Holmes." Jim threatened, "As long as you do as I say the game continues, and he'll remain alive. I own your life John, it is best if you don't test me on this. In fact I might have to threaten to nip off that housekeeper of yours as well to add extra insurance that you'll play my game."

"Landlady." John corrected automatically.

"Oh, how adorable," Jim gasped, "she's got you trained as well."

John was taken aback, unsure of what Jim was getting at. "Got me trained? What do you mean by that?"

Moriarty laughed, "Oh, John, Sherlock's got you wrapped around his little finger. You jump through all these hoops he sets up for you, fulfilling all your cues."

"I do not." John denied.

But Moriarty smiled again, for he knew better. "Brilliant!" he mocked. "Sherlock how did you do that! That's amazing! Spectacular, how did you figure that out?" Jim stopped his imitation of John, "You make him matter to the world, John. Without you, Sherlock would have remained cloistered away, solving one or two cases that find his attention. You've made him a celebrity with that blog of yours." He reflected, "Without you… he'd be nothing."

"That's not true." John argued, feeling helpless against the force of Moriarty.

"Whatever you choose to believe," Jim complied, "Well, John. We're going to spend a lot of time together. I'm sure you have questions."

"Only one," John confessed, "how does a man survive blowing his brains out with a pistol?"

Moriarty let out a low whistle, "I hoped you would ask that, it does prove my genius," he began. "Even against yours and Sherlock's beliefs, Richard Brook was a real person. They say everyone has a twin in the world. Mine was waiting tables in an upscale restaurant in Italy. Imagine my surprise when I looked up and saw him." Moriarty mouth gaped into an expression of fake shock. "It was like looking in a mirror. I thought, if he could fool me, he could fool Sherlock Holmes. Rich was eager to take on the role, and with a little training was impeccable. He loved playing me, and it was amusing playing Richard for Sherlock. The only difficulty I had was getting him to shoot himself. But that was easily remedied."

"How?" John inquired, curious of how any person could make a man take his own life.

"I would have had him shot by a sniper," Moriarty laughed coldly. John felt his hatred for the man grow and build up inside of him. "Luckily, Rich's flair for the theatrical elements of life helped along the way." Jim concluded, mimicking inserting a pistol into his mouth with his hands.

John felt his stomach churn with the horror of what this man could do. "I'm not going to shoot myself." He informed Jim.

"Of course not John," Moriarty smiled, "You and I are going to have some fun first."

Sherlock Holmes bounded up the front steps of 221 B. and flung open the door, entering the building with a rejuvenated feeling.

"Bring up some tea, Mrs. Hudson!" he called, taking the steps two at a time to get up to the flat's parlor door where he paused to compose himself. He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and his cold fingers gripped the handle of the door, letting it swing open and entered.

The room was empty. Sherlock carefully walked around the room observing minute details. Mrs. Hudson's tea set was already set up on the coffee table, a half-full cup on the side table. _Tea's cold_, noted Sherlock moving on to scan the room. John's computer was on hibernate mode. _Obviously though he was going to use it_, Sherlock deduced, _but never did._ He walked to the desk and pulled out the top drawer. John's pistol still laid in the mild mess of its contents. He slid it closed. _Didn't prepare for danger_, he mentally set the fact aside, _doesn't rule out danger_. He eyes wandered the room again. John's jacket was gone, and the corner of the doorway rug was flipped up. "He left in a hurry." Sherlock whispered audibly. _If he did leave at all_. Sherlock exited the room back to the hallway and climbed another half flight of stairs.

"John!" he called. Silence. "John?"

"What's all the racket, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson, wearing her pajamas and wrapped up in her bathrobe, timidly made her way up the steps below Sherlock. Gray half-circles hooded her eyes, and Sherlock's stomach twinged as he noted her feebleness pulling herself up the stairs.

"Where's John?" Sherlock gazed at his flatmate's closed bedroom door, willing it to open.  
"I left him upstairs with the tea kettle." Mrs. Hudson's pale face tilted to the parlor door. "My good china too. He was outta sorts, poor Doctor. I reckon he was up all night waiting for you." She paused, contemplating the closed door. "He must have slipped in for a while and nodded off, probably still sleeping, poor soul."

"John never over sleeps." Sherlock adamantly argued.

"Well you can go up and check," Mrs. Hudson offered.

"Check?"

"Yes, go in and see if he's still sleeping." She explained, motioning to the door.

"Into John's room?" Sherlock was appalled, and he thought for a moment. "I've never been in there."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson looked a little surprised. "Let me get my kettle." She turned away and entered the parlor, escaping Sherlock's view.

Left alone, Sherlock approached John's door and quietly knocked. No response. This was ridiculous; Sherlock knew John was not at the flat. Curiosity struck hard though, he gripped the cold metal handle and turned it, letting the door swing open to slowly reveal John's room. The room spoke 'John'. A neat, well organized desk was pushed against the wall opposite the door. In the corner was a comfy armchair paired with a large bookshelf and a reading lamp. John's bed was made, untouched from the previous night. Sherlock had difficulty crossing the threshold of the room. He only took one step into the room to reach the handle of the door and pull it shut. His last glimpse before the room was concealed by the door was the sight of John's cane propped up in the corner, dusty from its time of disuse. Sherlock felt a small twinge of pride, for it was he who had tricked John into being able to walk on his own after Afghanistan. The door clicked shut, and Sherlock felt immensely alone in what seemed to be a too large flat for one person. He eagerly awaited John's arrival.

The door off 221B. banged shut, jolting everyone in the flat to life. A staccato stamp of feet reached Sherlock's ears up the stairs and past the living room where he sat. Whoever had entered the flat did not enter the room but continued to climb the next flight of stairs.

Sherlock rose from his chair and exited the room to the hall in time to see John's figure enter his bedroom. He approached John's room, seeing his friend pacing inside from the open doorway. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe unnoticed by John.

Sherlock finally broke into his friend's anxiety. "Where were you?" he asked quietly.

John's head snapped up in attention and he halted in his tracks. A moment of silence and then John's eyes drained the emotion from Sherlock's gaze. "Where was I?" he repeated Sherlock's question quietly. "Where were you?" he demanded.

Sherlock was taken aback, "Where was I? Why does that matter?"

John picked up a book from the desk and threw it violently at the wall. "Why does it matter? Sherlock, you just waltz off whenever you choose!"

"So you just 'waltzed off'?" Sherlock retorted. "You worried me John. I didn't know where you were."

"I didn't know where you were!" John pointed out. "That's the problem, Sherlock!" he flung open his closet door. "Creates all our problems." He murmured, pulling out a suitcase and laying it on the bed. John yanked clothes from hangers and threw it in the suitcase. He brought out a box from under the bed and started packing the books from his desk and shelves.

"What are you doing, John?" Sherlock stepped into the room, blocking John's way to his desk. John simply went back to pulling clothes from his closet and packing them away. "John!"

"I can't do this anymore, Sherlock," John kept evading Sherlock's face with his eyes. "It's over. I'm leaving." He folded the lid on one of the boxes and started another.

"What am I supposed to do, John?"

John shrugged his shoulders, "Find a new flatmate."

"I can't live with anyone else." Sherlock argued.

"Not my problem." John lapsed back into cold silence.

_Where have you been, John? _Sherlock contemplated his friend silently. _Where have you been? Why can't I see it?_ His eyes roved over John's clothing, John's shoes, John's face. Nothing. No clues. It was as if all traces of anything were wiped clean from his person. Shoes: no traces of dirt or dust of specific region. Clothes: impeccable condition. There were no rips or tell-tale stains. For a man that Sherlock could read his daily activities for years, John Watson and where he had been in the last day remained a mystery to him.

The sound of John zipping his suitcase recalled Sherlock from his failed deduction. John was leaving. He stepped unconsciously to the door, blocking John's way. His friend felt his presence, and finally lifted his head to look upon Sherlock. Blue eyes met brown, and John broke the connection immediately. _Look at me—look at me, John_. Sherlock wanted his friend's eyes: the only thing he could read.

Tucking a box under his arm and pulling a suitcase into his hand, John's eyes never left the floor again. He stood in front of his friend.

"Sherlock let me through." John pleaded quietly, almost whispering. Sherlock remained immobile, frozen in place. John closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, pursing his lips into a frown. He pushed past Sherlock defeating his feeble attempts of resistance, and walked down the stairs leaving Sherlock on the landing.

"Where are you going, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson's slight frame shadowed the parlor and John paused in his recession.

"I'll pick up the rest of the boxes in the morning." He informed her coldly shifting the box at his side he continued on down the stairs and out the door.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled slowly into the hallway standing at the top of the stairs John had just descended from. She stared at the door wrapping her robe closer to her and trying not to cry. Looking up at Sherlock she sniffled, evident tears falling from her eyes. Sherlock swallowed and approached her, silently embracing her in a hug.

John slammed the trunk of the cab shut before sliding into the leather backseat. The cabbie accelerated, quickly pulling away from Baker Street, and a hole formed inside of John's heart. The flat disappeared as the cab turned the corner.

"Splendid performance, John." A voice commented beside him. He turned, Jim Moriarty grinned, reclining in the seat.

"We're going to make a great team, John." John remained silent, turning away from his nemesis. "Oh, you couldn't help it," Jim assured him. "You had to keep the game going. It's the rules, John, or game over."

John bit his lip trying to control his frustration, "I've still got stuff there that needs to be picked up."

"I'll send a cab in the morning," Jim resolved, "There's no need for you ever to return to Baker Street again. Where I'm taking you is far nicer."

John didn't respond. He didn't want to see Jim's face anymore or hear his voice. He wanted to be at home.


	2. Finding Prometheus

"I don't know what's gotten into him." Mrs. Hudson blew her now with a handkerchief. "He was acting so funny last night, like something strange was about to happen. He was so worried about you, Sherlock. Stayed up half the night" Sherlock silently handed her a cup of tea which she gratefully accepted. "Then to top off today just leaving here like that. Silly thing for a violin." She alluded to last evening's dispute.

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, pensively propping his elbows on its arms. "You said he was acting strange?"

"Unbelievably so, I couldn't calm him down, I finally left him with the tea."

"John wouldn't move out," Sherlock observed quietly. "Not without reason or warning."

"Who's to say he has no reason?" Mrs. Hudson asked gulping down some of the hot tea.

"What reason could exist that would lead John to leave?" Sherlock was incredulous that anything could have driven John out of Baker Street.

"Come on, Sherlock," she chided, "you're not so innocent yourself. Sure you're on a different mental plane than most of us, but you could respond to him sometimes. And be a little less rude, it's almost abusive."

"I'm not the reason he left." Sherlock denied.

Mrs. Hudson pushed herself up from the chair and started to gather the tea things together. "I suppose not, dear, but do think about it, Sherlock." She lifted the tray in her hands and took slow measured steps out of the room, leaving Sherlock in solitude. He sat still for a moment, thoughts racing through his mental kingdom. Jumping up, he grabbed his violin case and clicked it open and pulled out the beautiful Stradivarius. He needed to think. The thin fingers brushed against the coarse fret strings beginning a mellow sonata. The sweet sonorous melody hung in the air, yet he did not fell the immediate relief he had wished. He broke off his song letting the unfinished phrase float away and diminish throughout the room. The violin reminded him of John. He placed it again in its case. Sherlock sank into his chair again, leaning forward and rubbing his pulsating temples. Why was John gone? Why? What happened? Why couldn't Sherlock figure out why John felt he could not stay at Baker Street? He had no facts, just emotions which he could not work with.

Frustrated by his lack of facts, Sherlock felt suffocated in the room and wanted to escape. He stood and walked out of the room feeling gloomy at the prospect of being reminded of John's departure as he glanced up to see the door of his friend's room was open revealing a half empty bedroom. He walked down the stairs to the lowest level of 221. He observed something unnatural lying on the floor of the hallway. Stooping he picked it up. It was a book. John's book, he deduced, for he didn't recognize the title. _Paradise Lost_ by John Milton, he read, and flipped through the pages. A sheet of loose paper floated out of it and sailed to the floor. He picked it up and examined it, curious of its strange contents.

What was the meaning of this? He studied the mysterious symbols, recalling all of his knowledge about codes and regretted to find it was rather limited. The case with the Chinese smugglers flashed across his mind. The Black Lotus group used a book and an old system of numbers to pass messages through their ranks. He rapidly counted the figures on the paper. Twenty-six. The alphabet, he deduced. But what the hell did _Prometheus_ mean? He pulled out his Blackberry and searched 'Prometheus' on the browser. Scrolling through the results a scowl of disdain crossed his face. Greek myth: Prometheus a tragic hero punished by Zeus for bringing fire and wisdom to humanity. Myths… Sherlock had no books on Greek mythology. It was something he found utterly useless in the science of deduction. He wondered briefly if John even intended to leave the book to be found in the flat, but the peculiar puzzle inside convinced Sherlock that it might give him answers that he was searching for.

He thoughtfully considered the book. John had not taken all of his things, and he remembered his bookshelf was still harboring some of John's most beloved books. It would be far-fetched for anyone else, but Sherlock needed to collect his facts. Clutching John's copy of _Paradise Lost_ and the newfound code in his hands, Sherlock mounted the stairs to John's bedroom.

John's desk was clean, Sherlock observed, jerking open the drawers to confirm they were empty. Turning sharply he focused his attention to the bookshelf. Sherlock knew he was looking for something that either connected to 'Prometheus' or Greek mythology.

His eyes scanned the spines of the books taking in the titles of John's collection. _Medical Mysteries of the Twentieth Century, The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe_, _The Invisible Man_, _ A Clockwork Orange_: useless. He pulled out the volumes that did not resemble any aid towards his search and tossed them carelessly onto the bed. He continued his methodical procedure and the books on the shelf diminished as the minutes ticked by. He pulled another volume from the lower section of the bookshelf, Sherlock noticed something strange. What did this mean? He reached into the space that he had just created and brushed his fingers against leather, not wood. Excitedly, he took away the surrounding books in the area and added them to the pile that had already accumulated. A novel was secreted behind the row of books. He pried it out from its hiding place and his emotions leaped with triumph. _The Modern Prometheus _was the book he held in his hand.

"Found you, Prometheus." Sherlock greeted his good fortune. He glanced at the author's name pulling out his Blackberry in the same moment. "Mary Shelley," he whispered aloud, typing the name into his search engine. He pulled up:

Mary Shelley

The spouse of the poet Percy Shelley is most famous for being the acclaimed author of the classic novel _Frankenstein_ [also known as _The Modern Prometheus_].

He backed out of the webpage and searched 'Frankenstein' pulling up a result that looked like:

A fictional tale of the tragic history of Victor Frankenstein after he pursues to increase the wisdom of the human race by finding the secret to animated life, making him truly a **modern Prometheus**.

Smiling a bittersweet smile, Sherlock pressed the end button and slid his mobile back into the inside pocket of his coat jacket. Whatever doubts he had about this book being the prize he sought immediately vanished. He had definitely found Prometheus.


	3. Puzzles

Sherlock watched the blur of printer's ink as his slender fingers riffled through the pages of The Modern Prometheus. The black haze that his eyes registered suddenly changed in shade. A new puzzle in blue ink was penned inside of the back cover of the book. He paused and opened to the cryptic code.

He connected the symbols to the cryptic alphabet already given to him. This was the real puzzle. Turning back to the title page, Sherlock found something scribbled on it. He recognized John's cramped scrawl.

I sign my NAME to you

A purposeful clue, left to aid him in some way, he assumed. And then again, lower on the page.

Stay. Flip + Switch

Another clue, yet both seemed unfathomable at a first glance. Two pairs of footsteps ascended the stairs and Sherlock felt the beginning of irritation well up inside of him at the impeding presence of other people.

"Oh, Sherlock! What on earth have you done?" cried Mrs. Hudson's her frame filled the doorway. "Books everywhere! The room is a total mess. I'm so sorry, sir. Doctor Watson did not leave it like this." She addressed the shadow of a figure behind her.

"That's alright, ma'am. My orders were to pack up everything and bring it back to my employer." The stranger replied stepping into the room.

Sherlock jumped up in alarm, grabbing the copy of Frankenstein, so that the mover eyed him warily. Sherlock straightened his jacket casually tucking the novel underneath his arm.

The hired man eyed the book. "I'm to take everything, Mr.- …"

"Holmes," Sherlock introduced himself coldly. "This," he gestured to the book, "is actually mine. It must have wandered up here and got mixed up with John's things when I lent it to him." The man walked farther into the room taking a box from the corner of the room and started to pack the books that were sprawled around the room.

"I'll-um- leave you to it, then." Sherlock started to back step out of the room. The hand of Mrs. Hudson stopped him when he crossed the threshold to the hallway.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" she asked quietly.

"Completely fine, Mrs. Hudson," he replied nonchalantly. "Why should you ask?"

"You don't read for pleasure," she reminded him.

"I wasn't aware of that." Sherlock countered. "I'll take tea in the parlor now… and dinner."

"Not your housekeeper, dear."

"Something cold will do." He spun around and descended down the stairs.

"Not your housekeeper!" Mrs. Hudson called after him. But Sherlock was no longer listened as he isolated himself in the parlor for hours of brainwork.

John didn't know where they had taken him. Sitting in the room Moriarty had given him, he stared at the wall with a blank expression on his face. His laptop was open on the desk, the screen of his blog page glowing with life. John rose slowly and cautiously approached the computer. He sat in front of it and opened a new tab on the internet window. In the search bar, he typed in the URL for his email account and hit the enter tab.

ACCESS DENIED

John tried again.

NO CONNECTIONS ARE AVAILABLE

Confused, he pulled up the blog page again. It was fine normal.

"You have no internet service, John." Moriarty's voice informed him from the door. John spun around. "That blog page is a program meant to simulate what the process of posting a blog is. I thought it would give you something to do."

John inserted his hand into his pocket pulling out his phone. He tried to send a text; it bounced back.

"No phone service, either, John." Moriarty reminded amused.

"I didn't really expect it." John confessed, feeling confined, still on the edge. "What are we doing here?"

Moriarty's eyes flashed as his lips drew into a thin smile. "Waiting."

Symbols in the darkness. Symbols meant to mean something. A message for him. Sherlock saw it in his mind. Opening his eyes, he saw the last character fade sway as the ceiling came into focus. He laid there on the couch for a moment, sighing deeply and reached towards the box on the table next to him. He pulled out another nicotine patch from its contents and ripped off the adhesive back. Adding it to the other three already on his arm, he tossed the box away and propped himself up on the couch to peer at the papers he had tacked onto the wall.

He had taken photos of the cryptic alphabet, the message, and the written clues and had hung them up. The originals laid safely in a drawer of the parlor desk along with the novel.

Where to start? Stay. Flip and Switch.

"Stay," he whispered. If John left the message how would he have started his process? Leave the alphabet as an alphabet.

He untacked the photograph of the twenty-six characters and 'Prometheus' from the wall and transposed.

KHUIRQWS

POISYIFC HYK PC RSVU

KOIIA

Rubbish, yet Sherlock reflected on his knowledge of codes and breaker ciphers. Sometimes one letter is not always itself. Most aren't. There were keywords that remained stationary. Words that broke the codes. What would John know about codes? Sherlock didn't know the extent of his friend's knowledge. John had helped him with the Black Lotus case, an affair that utilized number pairs and passages from a book. Technically John was tied to a chair on the tramway when Sherlock found the correct book to decode the message, so he didn't actually witness him breaking it. Somehow Sherlock wasn't sure how far the knowledge of the Ancient Chinese number system could help him with this code.

I sign my name to you. Name. NAME. What did that mean? Why did John include it? And name… name was capitalized. Was he supposed to use 'Prometheus' again? He decided against it. Too many characters to use. Especially if he was supposed to 'stay' or keep the letters the same. Names… other names on the journey. Who gave the world a 'modern Prometheus'? Mary Shelley. Either 'Mary' or 'Shelley' could work. He wrote out the alphabet and kept the letters of 'Shelley' in the code line.

Now flip it or switch it. He decided to try the easiest amateur cipher technique of writing the alphabet backwards excluding the letters he already had placed.

He tried decoding the message with the new alphabet.

QHGTJKDS

Sherlock stopped after the first word. Not right at all. What about 'Mary'? He began the process again.

What if switch was a different instruction? Perhaps interchanging the pairs of letters would work.

He tried the message again.

PQEWRHIDI

Not progressing at all. He let out a groan of exasperation, letting the pen fall from his hands. I sign my NAME to you. Why sign? Why say sign? Why not 'give' or 'tell'? What do you sign? Letters…messages. Messages!

"Why am I so stupid?" he exclaimed. So stupid! Name. It had even been capitalized for him. Four letters to remain the same. JOHN. John was four letters and how his friend would sign a letter to him. He picked up the pen again.

Sherlock had 'flipped' the alphabet backwards… now for the 'switch'.

He tried decoding the secret message again with his newest attempt of breaking the cipher.

SHERLOCK

He paused smiling at the success. Definitely on the right track now. He finished decoding the cryptography and stared blankly at the result.

SHERLOCK

MORIARTY HAS MY LIFE

SORRY

Sherlock froze, unsure of the meaning behind John leaving him something like this. Was it an excuse? Something John left behind to pardon his hurtful action? What would Moriarty have to do with it?

Numbly, his face void of emotion, Sherlock gathered up the photographs and his work and rose to re-pin them back on the wall.

Pushing the last thumbtack into the plaster, he inhaled deeply closing his eyes, and tried to remember that day. The day. The memory was hazy, almost dreamlike and blurred behind his closed eyelids.

James Moriarty. One of his many nemeses. Leaving him at the edge of the building. Laughing and his eyes widening. The pistol shot ringing through the air. Wide eyes. A death mask. And that utter terror. Terror for his safety. Terror for others.

Exhaling, he opened his eyes again letting the nightmarish images glide away. He had seen Moriarty pull the trigger himself. Seen the blood splatter onto the cement platform of the roof.

MORIARTY

He stared at his own writing, contemplating the name. The fall. "Will you continue to haunt me?" he whispered aloud. And in asking that celestial question he was answered in the most unexpected way.

"You have one new message." An automated voice came from the direction of the fireplace mantle. Sherlock hesitantly approached it seeing that the camera phone he had received years ago in the mail was glowing with life again after years of disuse.

"That's her phone. The pink lady's phone,' John's voice echoed inside of Sherlock's mind.

"No, only made to look like it,"

Although Sherlock was not sentimental, he had kept the camera-phone encased in the pink case as a sort of memorandum- a keepsake among the scattered contents of the room's mantelpiece. Cautiously, he took up the phone in his hand and opened the message.

"Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep..." Five short Greenwich pips sounded. They clearly portrayed the warning they were meant to give. His stomach flipped for he remembered the last time he had played this game… what had almost been the cost. Another longer beep sounded as a familiar image flooded the screen. Sherlock instantly identified it as the upstairs lab he occasionally used at St. Bart's Hospital.


	4. Games

Jim Moriarty sat pensively in his chair observing closely his guest. He had secreted himself away in a small observation chamber he had made himself. There he sat at the window that offered him a view of the room he had given the doctor. He could see every action of John's, but John remained oblivious that Moriarty was watching. All John perceived was his southern wall was home to a large mirror that reflected his prison back to him.

John Watson… he mused on the subject of Sherlock Holmes' flatmate for a while. Jim could see the allure of having John around. He was so simple. So satisfying for someone whose mind raced like a steam engine when unoccupied with stimulating affairs. Just watching the man gave Moriarty some sort of strange peace he had no memory of ever feeling. He wondered briefly if the satisfaction that he was feeling was actually from John's presence or the fact that he was once again playing cat and mouse with Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty enjoyed games. They fulfilled his need to control and manipulate the people he encountered in life. Sherlock Holmes was his most sufficient opponent, yet. He had not lied to John at the pool. When Jim had found out Sherlock had survived jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, he had been somewhat relieved. Happy… he couldn't answer that. Angry… oh yes. Sherlock was his enemy. He had wanted him dead. But now, he didn't want to kill Sherlock…just hurt him. Burn him… to a crisp.

Some movement distracted him from his perch at the window. John had risen from his desk chair, one of the commodities Moriarty had allowed him. Wandering over to the bed, he stiffly sat down and wearily looked around the room. Moriarty smiled. John was bored, feeling the same feeling that had gripped his mind so many times. The same illness that plagued Sherlock from time to time.

Sherlock wouldn't be bored now. No… not with a game. This was the game. Sherlock the opponent. John the game piece. Jim's game piece now. He had been Sherlock's. In fact, he had been Sherlock's most powerful piece. Almost like the Queen on a chess table…no not the Queen. Moriarty corrected himself; John was a Rook. He was weak, only able to move linearly because of his heightened moral compass. The Queen could move anywhere and do anything… the power piece. The Rook had limits. Poor John Watson was flawed and imperfect. But he could be used. That's why Moriarty had collected him.

Never before had Sherlock been so at risk of tumbling down a set of stairs as he bounded up the flights that would bring him to the lab he so often frequented for his cases. The tails of his great overcoat brushed against and tangled with his long legs. This continuously threatened to trip him as he ascended. Yet he managed to keep his speed without a disastrous misstep. Using his momentum, Sherlock flung upon the door of the laboratory with a bang.

Startled, Molly Hooper let the beaker she had been holding in her thin hands slip from her grasp and shatter on the floor. The silhouette of Sherlock Holmes filled the doorway.

"Oh… it's you." Molly stammered, "I—uh—um—on one of your cases, are you?" she asked, kneeling down to try to gather up some of the glass shards from around her feet. "I should have known… you know."

"You should have known?" Sherlock demanded, his brow furrowing as he stepped into the room.

"You left your file…. I found it here this morning." Her voice was thin. She gave him a smile. "Ow!" Blood trickled out of the deep gash on her palm, and she tried to place pressure on the stinging wound. She had cut herself on one of the shards.

Sherlock ignored this, "What file?"

"The one you left on the counter," Molly winced, using the stool by the centrifuge to pull herself up onto her feet. Sherlock's eyes roved around the room, scanning the counter tops in search of whatever Molly was referencing.

"I don't see it."

"You don't?" Molly bit her lower lip in uncertainty. "I know it's here somewhere. It—it has to be." She walked over towards the station that housed the microscope and opening some drawers to riffle through the contents with her uninjured hand. "I—I must have moved it when I was beginning my tests."

Sherlock yanked out a drawer himself and studied the contents. A box of unused microscope slides, a dissecting kit, vials, test tubes, it was just a medley of scientific equipment.

"So- um, how are you doing?" Molly asked, opening a file cabinet to see if she had accidently placed it there with other medical files.

His face contorted with irritation, Sherlock replied, "I'm fine."

"Oh, okay." More silence than. "Mrs. Hudson called by…"

"Did she?" Sherlock wasn't interested, he pulled out another drawer and kept searching for something that resembled a file.

"She told me John had moved out."

Sherlock froze and slowly stood up to his full stature. He turned towards her. Molly stood there, eyes cast down.

Molly continued on, "If you want to talk or you ever need something…"

"She told you John left?" He cut her off.

"Yes."

Sherlock turned back to the drawer. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Because if your not—you know—fine—it's fine." Molly moved another pile of files off the counter to sort through.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, you said that." Molly pauses for a moment before inhaled sharply, "I mean he was so nice… it's a shame and…"

"Molly." Sherlock interrupted her. "This search would produce more results if we progressed in silence."

A few moments passed on before Molly stopped. "Here it is." She pulled out a blue file from under a note pad.

"Let me see it." Sherlock stretched out a hand for it, taking a step closer towards her. He was curious of why Molly thought it was his file. He had not left anything like in the lab and it had been weeks since he had last visited St. Bart's. She handed it to him.

"This isn't mine." He said turning it over in his hands.

"It should be. Your name is on it."

Sherlock examined the top of the file. On the upper right hand corner was scrawled.

S. Holmes

Someone had left it here with the intention that it would get to him. He opened it cautiously. A pair of photographs were paper-clipped to the inside face. Nothing more was in it. His slender fingers slide the images out from underneath the metal clip. The first he examined captured the appearance of what seemed to be an interrogation room. But something was strange. There seemed to be words scrawled on the walls. No not words… one word.

Sherlock

His name wallpapered the cell. Interesting… Sherlock didn't know what to think of it, yet. He dismissed it for a moment turning instead to the second of the photographs. This one was much more familiar to him. It was an image of a car. Sleek, black, expensive looking. The backseat window was rolled down. Sitting there in the car's interior was a man on his cellphone. The edges were slightly blurred and the image was out of focus, but Sherlock instantly recognized the man's identity. It was his brother, Mycroft.

"Where did you find this?" He commanded, his voice low, devoid of any changes in pitch.

"It's like I've told you," Molly looked up from the work she had busied herself with after she had handed over the file to him. "It was on the counter when I got here."

"More specific," Sherlock urged, "I need details."

"Um- it was there." She pointed to across the counter top where she was positioned, between the centrifuge and the data system computer.

Sherlock moved to stand across from her. She was busy adjusted the focus of the microscope lens she was using… too busy to look at him. He bent over, leaning forward onto the counter. "I need to know if anything else has been changed, Molly. Has anything else been touched?"

That won her attention. "I don't think so- I don't know. I'm sorry." She looked so frail sitting there on that stool. Her left hand unconsciously reached for the pen that was on top of the counter near her. Sherlock noticed it was still crusted with blood.

"You should wash that," he nodded towards it. "Put a bandage on it."

"Mm hm…" She looked down herself and noticed what he was looking at, "you're right." Molly stood and went to the sink. The sound of running water filled the next few seconds. "Would you like a coffee?" Her voice trailed over her shoulder.

Sherlock looked down again at the file on the countertop trapped by his own hands. "I have to go." He dismissed himself, spinning on his heel and leaving the room without another word.

The first thing Sherlock had done after he left St. Bart's was hail a cab. Now, he sat in the interior of the vehicle musing over the navy folder he held in his hands. This is what the text message he had received at the flat had led him to. This must be his first puzzle. He reopened the file and balanced it on his knees. Unfastening the photos from the sturdy cardstock, Sherlock examined them once again in the privacy of the cab.

The interrogation room was not a place he could recall in his memories as he walked the hallways of his mind palace. It was not one of the chambers the New Scotland Yard used in its criminal dealings. The fact that his name was inscribed on what seemed to be every surface of the walls perplexed him.

Who was behind this? John's note drifted back into his thoughts. Moriarty could not possibly be alive. All of Sherlock's senses repressed the idea that he could be. His suicide had been too tangible, too concrete to be fake. That body on the roof was stone, cold dead when Sherlock had jumped from the highest ledge of St. Bart's. The one thing for certain that Sherlock knew was that whoever was behind this knew about his cases John had nicknamed 'A Study in Pink' and 'The Great Game'. They would not have known about the camera phone and the puzzles otherwise.

Looking down again, Sherlock picked up the photograph of Mycroft. This was a more concrete lead to follow. Sherlock knew where Mycroft could be found at a moment's notice. And whoever had left him these clues had enough reason to link Mycroft to this mysterious interrogation room. If Sherlock could force any information about this room from a person the person would have to be Mycroft. The photographs demanded it.

"Take a left here," Sherlock instructed the cabbie.

"A left, sir?"

"Yes, a left." Sherlock repeated louder for the sake of the cabbie. He had realized now from the slight tilt of the man's head that he was hard of hearing in the right ear.

The cabbie conceded to Sherlock wish and skillfully executed a left turn. Sherlock let him drive in silence for a moment.

"Stop here." He directed. The car slowed down outside of the building Sherlock sought as his destination.

The Diogenes Club.

"When they told me that my brother was waiting for me in the dialogue room, I have to admit I was greatly surprised." Mycroft Holmes strode languidly into the room, looking down upon Sherlock. The man felt as if he was drowning in the uncomfortably overstuffed armchair he was sitting in. The elder Holmes stopped in front of Sherlock and gave him a wan smile. "Sherlock."

"Mycroft." He replied calmly.

"I expected you'd come around sometime soon," Mycroft leaned casually against his great desk. "Mrs. Hudson stopped by." He added pointedly with a look.

Sherlock remained silent, thinking that Mrs. Hudson was the biggest gossip in London at that moment. He observed Mycroft reaching over to the canter of brandy on the side table by the desk. The amber liquid tumbled out of the ornate bottle and splashed into the glass his pale hand clenched. "Fix you a drink?"

"No." Sherlock bluntly refused his brother's offer of a refreshment.

"Your landlady's visit had come as quite a surprise as well. I was assuming a far happier announcement was going to be in order, but…life is so full of harsh realities, isn't it?" Mycroft lifted the tumbler to his lips, letting some of the sweet liquid trickle down the back of his throat.

"John and I are… not involved with each other in the way you seem to be insinuating." Sherlock frowned, immensely displeased with his sibling. "But since you seem so willing to talk about my former flatmate, perhaps you would be so gracious to tell me why you have ceased contacting John."

"I have no purpose to." Mycroft answered readily, setting down his glass on the highly polished wood beside him.

"When was the last time you have spoken to or contacted John?"

"Sherlock, if you're assuming I've had anything to do with John moving out of Baker Street—"

"I don't."

"—you would sorely be wrong." Mycroft finished his sentence as if he had not been interrupted.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, adjusting his position in his chair. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I can't remember." Mycroft replied drily.

"Yes, you can." The younger brother argued. Sherlock's cold glare held Mycroft in his place. A brief moment passed.

"Shortly before your incident at St. Bartholomew's." Mycroft sighed, complying to answer Sherlock's previous question.

Sherlock mused over this fact for a moment. It coincided with what he already knew. John had not received –or answered to be more accurate—a phone call or text message from Mycroft since Sherlock had moved back into Baker Street. It had always puzzled him what had severed the small companionable relationship John and Mycroft had seemed to share in the past.

"Why'd you stop?" Sherlock inquired, "You were chums… always texting John. I never saw the reason behind it."

"I was checking up on you, and I was concerned about you," Mycroft reasoned, referring to his brotherly attention he had formerly afforded Sherlock.

"Yet, you stopped," Sherlock perceived. "What happened? Your concern for me suddenly flew out the window?"

It was Mycroft's turn to ignore his brother's provocation. "I don't see the point of this discussion." He stood. Sherlock noticed Mycroft had put on four and a half pounds since he had last seen him. His diet was failing. Sherlock understood that meant Mycroft was or had recently been under stress. The elder Holmes had a tendency to overeat when his responsibility seemed too overbearing.

"I want access to the holding cells you utilize." Sherlock expressed his sudden desire to see if the cell in the photograph was the source of the unbearable weight that seemed to be bearing down upon Mycroft. His mind told him it had something to do with the second photograph in the file.

Mycroft's eyes widening in surprise for a fraction of a second. "Why?"

"I'm on a case," was Sherlock's curt reply.

"For who?"

"The highest authority." Sherlock said, hoping that this would influence Mycroft's participation.

Instead the man lowered himself into another chair in the room and sunk into its voluminous folds. A low chuckle was on his lips.

"What?" Sherlock became irritated with him.

Mycroft simply shook his head still amused. "There is no higher authority than me."

Sherlock took this in stride. "So you admit it yourself then."

"Yes…finally, I know." Mycroft good-humoredly responding to Sherlock's small joke.

Sherlock knew Mycroft was not going to allow him into the government buildings. He was able to see a lost cause when it was present. He would have to find a way into the building on his own.


	5. Breaking and Entering

John's blog page was pulled up on the laptop Moriarty had given him. He couldn't think. His new blog post was devoid of any words, and his mind was still spinning. He had been in some sort of trance ever since leaving Baker Street. He stared blankly at the header that confronted him.

**The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson M.D.**

Nothing had happened since he had arrived here. Moriarty had simply showed him this room-which John had not left since- and expressed his wish that John would be comfortable here. John had been left to himself and he was beginning to have a good understanding of what Sherlock must feel like when he had nothing to occupy himself with.

John had spent his days lying on the bed or sitting at the desk in silence. He was beginning to feel like how he used to feel when he'd just returned from Afghanistan. Cold and numb. A Hollow-man, like the ones T.S. Eliot had created in his poetry. He was hollow inside. And afraid. Afraid of the man who had brought him to this prison chamber.

"I feel trapped." John whispered to himself. He couldn't recognize his own voice, and the sound disturbed him. He had not been able to hear a human voice since he had been here. "I'm trapped." His voice broke.

He rose from the desk and motivated himself to go stand by the only window of the room. He was not able to look out of it. Moriarty had had it painted over to isolate John's world to only that room. Yet, as John pressed his hand to the glass surface, he could feel the coolness radiate through his palm. The wind outside was cooling the surface. The cold touch was the only thing that reminded John that there was a world outside of that room. Baker Street was outside of that room. His home was waiting. And so was a man. Sherlock was waiting for him on the other side of that glass.

Inside his chest, John's heart was breaking.

Before he had departed from Mycroft's club, Sherlock had taken the liberty of pickpocketing his elder brother. Now he clutched in his hand a brass key, the sharp edges of its teeth cutting into his palm. It was the key to Mycroft's office.

Being that Mycroft was a creature of habit, Sherlock knew his brother would be at Diogenes Club until twenty to eight. That gave Sherlock forty minutes to get into Mycroft's office and out before the elder Holmes returned back to his office on his way to the Holmes' ancestral home which he inhabited alone.

No time to waste with a cab, Sherlock decided sprinting down the sidewalks. Mycroft's office was only a block away… so was the house. Along with the Diogenes Club, the three buildings created a convenient triangle of London that Mycroft constantly graced with his presence. It was odd for Mycroft to be found outside of these perimeters. Only national disasters and global crisis would motivate the man to wander outside of his habitual schedule and environment.

Breathing heavily and a little tired from exerting himself, Sherlock arrived outside of the building which housed Mycroft's office. He could not be recognized here. It was essential that he was not, otherwise Mycroft would know that Sherlock was investigating him. His brother had something to hide, and the only way Sherlock thought he could uncover Mycroft's secret was if the man thought Sherlock wasn't paying any attention to him.

Sherlock didn't look like a business man. Sighing, he unwrapped his scarf and stuffed it in one of his deep pockets. He flattening his coat collar and buttoned his coat, making sure that his dress shirt collar was visible. Perhaps he could pass now. He just needed to make sure that it looked like he belonged.

Entering the building, Sherlock ignored the ground floor receptionist and wandered towards the elevator. His thin fingers pressed the firm plastic button that would bring the elevator down to him. It annoyed him that he had to wait for the stupid contraption; he would rather take the stairs. But that would draw attention to himself. No office worker would take the stairs in this building.

With a small ping the metal doors parted to allow him into the tiny elevator room. Mycroft's office was on the top floor, and luckily Sherlock realized the elevator he was riding in was probably one of the fastest he'd ever experienced. In mere seconds, the doors parted once more, revealing a richly decorated hallway leading to a pair of heavy oaken double doors. That'd be just like Mycroft, Sherlock regarding the decor with disgust, surrounding himself with the opulent and ornate. Some people thought Sherlock's ego was bursting, but Mycroft's was absolutely bloated. It made him insufferable.

The key slid into the lock perfectly and with a slight twist of his wrist Sherlock was able to gain entrance into the office. The room was dimly lit; thick crimson curtains blocked most of the sunlight from streaming through the west windows. The other walls were utilized as bookshelves. The volumes they held were dusty and old. Some dealt with law, some other affairs. Sherlock doubted that Mycroft had used any of them. The carpet was thick as well, matching the shade of the curtains. It allowed Sherlock to cross the room, without a sound, to the large desk that was his brother's.

Sherlock began to wonder why his brother had an obsession with stuffed chairs as he felt himself sinking in the seat that allowed him access to the desk. It was thoroughly uncomfortable, yet he didn't have time to be distracted by it. He opening one of the desk drawers. Pens, pencils, a legal note pad, everything was so orderly set in it. Another drawer contained files, no information that would bring the nation down to its knees. All that was stored in a safer place. The third drawer contained what he was looking for. The ultimate pass that opened any door you wished. It was the same size as a credit card and displayed a photograph of Mycroft Holmes. The magnetic strip ran horizontally on the other side.

He would have to borrow it for a few hours. But once he took it, Sherlock would have to execute all his plans in haste. Mycroft would notice it was missing in the course of a day.

Something caught his eye in the drawer with the files. There slightly smashed into the back of the drawer was a manila folder. What had caught his eye was that it was put away unorderly… not something Mycroft would do. He pulled it out. On the tab, in Mycroft's handwriting, was the words Ripley Building and a date. The date coincided with the time Sherlock and John had been working on the Baskerville case. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It was headed with:

Location: Ripley Building

Date: 07/22/2011

Suspected Offender: J. Moriarty

Subject: Computer Key code

Supervising Official: M. Holmes

What a fortunate find, Sherlock reflected bitterly. So Mycroft had more dealings with Moriarty than just the Belgravia affair. It seemed Moriarty was an unstoppable force of nature that wreaked havoc in both the Holmes boys lives.

Sherlock discarded the paper suddenly feeling discontented. This new piece of evidence was alarming to him, it added weight to the possibility that Moriarty was involved in the scheme Sherlock found himself surrounded by. Someone else was acting in Moriarty's behalf. Moriarty was orchestrating his plans from the graves with the help of an intermediate. But who would have Moriarty's interest at heart? Sherlock didn't know.

He went to replace the file in its proper place, and discovered another curiosity. Another file identical in color with 'Baker Street' scrawled across the tab. He wasted no time ripping it from the drawer. Sherlock seethed in annoyance. Mycroft had to stop following him from the sidelines. He had to give it up, leave him alone. If there wasn't any brotherly love in their relationship why was there concern?

Some photos were inside, and he recognized them. The national spies that had frequented Baker Street to try to obtain the fictional key code Moriarty claimed to have possessed and left with Sherlock. There was the man who had jumped in front of a bus to save Sherlock only to be rewarded by getting shot for touching him. He flipped the photograph over. Mycroft had scribbled 'Russia' on the back. There was another here with 'Bosnia' written on it. So most of all the nations had sent a representative.

Sherlock found a memo scrawled inside the cover:

_**Call John to Diogenes**_

Mycroft's last visit with John. Perhaps even the last time they corresponded with each other.

Why John? Why tell him? And John was so disgruntled with any mention of Mycroft's after the incident at St. Bart's. Was this the cause? He didn't want to put the file away. Mycroft would not notice its absence, for Sherlock figured that his brother had dismissed away any further use for it. Sherlock decided to take it with him instead. No reason except motivated him except the satisfaction that Mycroft would not possess a file named 'Baker Street'.

He hid it in the recesses of his coat and closed the drawers he had opened. Making sure everything was the way he had found it, Sherlock rose and snuck out of the room. It was time to go and explore the Ripley Building.

Traveling to his desired destination required hiring yet another cab for it service. Sherlock bribed the cabbie with an extra fifty pounds if he could reach Ripley in under ten minutes. The cabbie, to his own delight, succeeded in this, though he had potentially caused several minor traffic collisions in the progress.

As he staggered out of the cab, Sherlock felt the he would like to avoid any motor vehicle in the next week or so to recover from the brutal experience he had just been through. He passed the sum total of his fare and the previously agreed amount through the window into the driver's hands before proceeding towards the side door of the Ripley Building.

The Old Admiralty, Sherlock remembered the nickname for the government premise as he swiped Mycroft's ID badge through the scanner system. It emitted a low buzz, recognized the correct key code and releasing the locking mechanism in the door. Sherlock pocketed the card again and pulled to open the door.

He was finally in the Ripley Building the place where he believed he could find the answers to all the puzzles that troubled him.


	6. Records

Mycroft Homes adjusted his suit jacket, precociously smoothing down the fabric of his sleeves. He was alone in the elevator that would bring him up to his private office. Allowing himself a small smile, Mycroft satisfactorily reflected on the contraption. It took precisely twenty-one seconds for the elevator to reach the twelfth floor achieving what Mycroft deemed efficiency. While the button next to the embossed '12' was lit the lift ignored all other signals from the others floors in order to ensure that Mycroft's precious time was not wasted.

Directly on the twenty-first second the ascension of the elevator halted and its doors parted to grant Mycroft access to the familiar hallway leading to his London office. Sherlock's visit to the Diogenes Club disturbed him. His brother never came on a whim to visit, and Sherlock's interest in Mycroft and John's broken affiliation was perplexing.

He had come to the oak doors and reached into his right pocket in search of his key. Unexpectedly, his hand met nothing. He checked again, his stomach twisting in a knot. His pocket was empty. He inserted his hand into his left pocket in search of it, knowing fully well he wouldn't find it. Out of habit, Mycroft _always_ kept his office key in his right suit jacket pocket. It was rule he never broke.

He pulled out his cell and pressed his speed dial button. "Anthea," Mycroft had perceived the other end had answered. "Get me a locksmith and send him upstairs."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the cool voice of his assistant answered before the line was disconnected. Mycroft hung up feeling a sense of irritation fill his senses. His time was being wasted. There was nothing more he hated then wasted time.

* * *

"Can I come in?" a voice implored from the vicinity of the street door that led into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson glanced up in surprise from her cup of tea. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was standing on the other side of the screen door.

"Come in, come in," she managed a small smile and beckoned the man inside. In a way she was almost grateful for the brief respite Lestrade's visit would offer her. She had spent the whole morning reflecting on her tenants' situation. She missed John Watson. Without him 221 B. seemed quiet and glum. Sherlock's behavior didn't help either. The young man didn't stay at the house. Instead, he darted here and there, on some sort of strange mission he refused to elaborate on. So far, Mrs. Hudson could not comprehend if John's departure even mattered anymore for the consulting detective.

Lestrade lowered himself into one of the kitchen chairs at the table she sat at. He wore plain clothes and looked rather haggard, but all together still in one piece. Mrs. Hudson wondered if he was struggling with an investigation that Sherlock was refusing to aid him with. "I came by to see how you're doing," he confessed. "Molly told me everything."

"She's a good girl," Mrs. Hudson shared her warm feeling for the young forensic scientist.

"Yes, she is." Lestrade agreed, heartily bobbing his head with an affirmative motion.

"I'm fine, Inspector." She sipped some more of her tea. Lestrade let her call him this even though it wasn't his appropriate title. He was really _Detective Inspector_. "Would you like a cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson offered.

"Sure, sure," Lestrade watched her shuffle over to the stove where the tea kettle was being kept warm. She poured out the steaming liquid in one of her best china cups just for him. Accepting it gratefully, Lestrade reflected on the woman's goodness and cheery spirit. Now she seemed so sad.

"It's quiet here," He didn't realize the words had escaped his lips until he said it.

"It is," One look at Mrs. Hudson made Lestrade understand his blunt comment was forgiven. She continued, "Reminds me off when we were missing Sherlock. It was so quiet then as well. No music, no yelling …no gunshots. In fact, it was so quiet here, John had to take a break. He rented out a room somewhere in Cardiff for a month or two," she paused. "Now we're missing the Doctor," she added with a soft expression. "I thought Sherlock was the noisy one."

Lestrade didn't know what he say to the old landlady. His optimistic spirit wanted to ensure her everything was going to turn out fine—everything would return back to normal in a week or so. John would be back. He and Sherlock would continue solving crimes together. But the mere fact that Sherlock was involved restrained him from attempting to give Mrs. Hudson hope. Sherlock wasn't normal and some things didn't end up fine for the world's only consulting detective.

The only thing Lestrade could do was give Mrs. Hudson the gift of his presence, and that much she was happy to receive.

"Stay for dinner, Inspector?" she implored in her chirping voice.

"I'd love to." Lestrade replied with a small grin.

* * *

The locksmith arrived in under twenty minutes, admirable for someone of that profession, but still not satisfying for Mycroft. He had had to stand outside of his office door for that period of time with no chair and a short amount of patience. The utility man opened the case he kept his tools in and picked out the right implements he would need for the job. Thrusting a skeleton key into the lock, the man jimmied the latch open with skill.

"That should do it, sir." Mycroft perceived the man was a Scot by his deep accent and extended vowels in his speech.

"Thank you," The elder Holmes admired the speed of the locksmith's hands even if the locksmith wasn't very quick on his feet. "If you proceed on downstairs the receptionist can cover the fee for you labor and a new lock."

"Yes, sir." The hired man took that to be his dismissal and packed up his things to leave. Mycroft left him to his own business and slipped into his office, closing the doors behind him. He reflected again about the lost key. Was it somewhere between the Diogenes Club and this office?

Mycroft's eyes scanned the room, conscientiously pausing over everything in his office. Something was wrong, Mycroft could feel it gnawing at the back of his mind. He stepped more into the room, searching for whatever was putting him off.

There it was. There present on the thick carpet before his desk was the slightest indentation of the outer sole of a shoe. He frowned, the lines of his forehead becoming distinct in his concentration. Someone had been here in his office. Someone had been here shortly before he had arrived at the building.

Mycroft's attention became fixated on his desk. He was unnerved now. _If someone was in here…_ He sat down in his seat and began to yank the drawers open in his semi-state of panic. Nothing touched in this one. Nothing moved here. He opened the last drawer: the bottom right one where he kept his files. His eyes roved over the contents it held. Once. Then twice. Mycroft swallowed the lump that had formed inside of his throat. The file he had made and labeled '_Baker Street'_ was missing.

He didn't have to second guess who had been inside of his office. The fact that he had lost his key between the club and here spoke for itself. The one person that Mycroft wanted to hunt down right now was his bothersome brother: Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The best thing about the twentieth century was that everything was recorded by video or electronic files. This proved to be fortunate for Sherlock as he sat down before the data computer he had found in an intelligence room he had broken into. Mycroft's card was magic; it opened all the gates to get him to this point. Now it was going to get him onto the data system. Sherlock swiped the badge through the magnetic code reader to activate the Ripley database system. The screen sprang to life.

Welcome M. Holmes

A small photograph of his brother flashed underneath the text along with a series of tabs. Sherlock clicked on the 'search' button and typed "J. Moriarty" into the search bar. The system emitted a beep and the words '27 Results' popped up in a dialogue box. The hyperlink brought him to a list of video files.

VID-KC-JM-01

VID-KC-JM-02

VID-KC-JM-03

VID-KC-JM-04

Sherlock counted the amount of files. There were twenty-seven of them and he noticed all the files were videos. He selected the first file and waited for it to download in a media player. It was footage of an interrogation. Sherlock's heart leaped inside of his chest when he recognized the room matched the one in the photo that had been given to him. All that was missing was his name scrawled upon the walls. Seated at the steel table was Jim Moriarty, his face bearing a week's worth of stubble and a haggard look. The looming figure of Sherlock's brother could be seen at the edge of the keyframe. The film began to play.

_"Do you know why I brought you here?" _ Mycroft's voice had a steely quality as his profile approached the spot where Moriarty was sitting. The second man remained quiet, his black, beady eyes trained on the eldest Holmes. Mycroft stopped so he was directly opposite of Sherlock's nemesis. His tall frame seemed to tower over the notorious villain of London society. "_You know what I want, James. It would be best that you give it to me." _ His voice had a sort of gravity attributed to it, and the fact that he had used the true first name of his prisoner added to the effect.

"_You've already set your men on me, Mr. Holmes," _Moriarty's voice was soft but dry, like his throat was parched from days without water. "_What makes you think I'd be willing to give my secret to you?"_ Sherlock noted the dark spots on the man's face. Was the video quality off because of the horrible lightening or were there bruises present underneath the eyes?

Mycroft had sat down in the only other chair present in the room. His hands folded and resting his chin upon them, he remarked, _"The lives of innocent British citizens are at risk. You will understand that I will not release you until I am assured of the safety of Britain." _

Moriarty's thin lips tightly drew themselves into a grim smile. _"The true monarch of Britain is revealed."_ His tone bordered on mockery. _"But now you're powerless. I'm the king now. I hold the key." _

_"So you admit there is a key code."_ Mycroft remained unfazed, cold as ice.

_"I never denied it."_ Moriarty refused to say anything more, yet his demeanor said he was waiting for something.

Mycroft tried a different approach, appealing to the man's silent way of communicating _"What do you want from me?" _

_ "I'm a bargaining man."_

_ "Money?"_

_ "Knowledge." _Moriarty demanded. _"At the end, nothing else matters but knowledge. Everything else becomes meaningless…dull." _

Mycroft shifted in his chair, still cautious of what he would allow the man. _"Elaborate." _ He commanded.

_"You interest me, Mr. Holmes,"_ a crazed look possessed Moriarty's features. _"Ice man." _He spat out the word as if it disgusted him.

_"I'm not going to talk about myself." _ The response was quick, blunt.

_"No, no," _Moriarty shook his head, _"I don't want you…not yet anyway. No, your brother… he fascinates me." _

Mycroft was trapped between social responsibility and family obligation. Moriarty waited patiently, finding delight in the man's torment of having to choose what he thought was right.

_"I- can't take that sort of liberty about my brother." _Mycroft confessed, but his face was still steel refusing to be defeated. _"There are other ways of making you talk." _

_ "You've tried most of them already, stupid man." _Moriarty insulted him, losing some of his composure in annoyance. _"I haven't talked yet. Do you really think you can get the keycode with what you have left to threaten me with?" _

_ "I'm not threatening you," _Mycroft still sounded so patient after all that had went on so far.

Moriarty grinned sardonically and sighed before collecting himself, _"You aren't… but I'm threatening you now." _

_ "You have nothing to threaten me with."_

_ "Oh, really?"_ Moriarty's features twisted in mock surprise. _"What if I told you that I know Bond Air was never supposed to happen?"_ His voice had dropped to a low, raspy whisper, still audible but distorted. _"Her Majesty felt she was above desecrating dead bodies, yet you surrounded yourself with you men and concocted the perfect way to hide what you were doing. All the King's horses and all the King's men… all with their own secret plans. What else have you been hiding from dear Lizzie? Those royal funds you've pocketed in your bank account? Oh, yes, she doesn't know does she?" _

It wasn't visible from the video, but Sherlock was pretty sure that if he had been in the room he would have seen Mycroft's face blanch. Moriarty had a hold on him now. The trap was set, and the video file had reached its end.

Sherlock sat pensively for a moment reflecting on what he had just learned. Mycroft, the queen's most trusted man, had abused his seat of power. Sherlock did not feel any emotion, no surprise or shock. A normal reaction for him whenever the matter of his brother was concerned.

Another screen in the room flickered to life by itself and Sherlock's eyes caught the new light. A series of numbers flitted over the screen in a frenzy of motion: 2, 8, 13, 14, 19, 23, 25, 26, and 27. His mind captured the sequence, grasping the meaning. Someone was giving him aid and telling him which files were important to his cause.

The cursor selected the second video file almost instantaneously. This file picked up where the last one had ended.

_"All I want is harmless information,"_ Moriarty had adopted a sort of innocence in his demeanor. _"Something to get my fix. It won't harm you at all, Iceman. I promise."_

He took Mycroft's silence to be an affirmation of granting him his request.

_"What was Sherlock like as a child?"_ Moriarty's thirst for the answer was evident.

_"Much like he is now," _his brother's voice was soft, quiet. _"Cold… isolated."_

The videos played on. The interrogator became the interrogated. What school had he gone to? Prufrock's like Mycroft? No. St. Francis Xavier. Who did he like best? Mummy. He hated Daddy with a passion after learning of the affair. Hated Mycroft too. The accident that took her. The suicide that ended him. They had separate grave plots. Sherlock had insisted upon it.

Sherlock spent the better part of two hours watching his life be recounted. All of his characteristic, likes, dislikes, and opinions were being spilt from the mouth of his brother. No hesitation could be found now in Mycroft's answers. The eldest Holmes's face began to look like the haggard one and Moriarty's relaxed in pleasure.

The time three-year-old Sherlock jumped off the roof thinking he could fly. The apple orchard in the back field where Sherlock had loved to escape to when he'd wanted solitude. Used to carve the apples with a little pocketknife before eating them. They began to discuss the teenage years. Battle with Mycroft and other forms of authority. The drugs. Late nights being called to police stations or having the sense that Mycroft had to hunt his little brother down because he had been gone too long.

The trouble of college. Yes, Sebastian was a classmate. No, he couldn't graduate. His classes followed no order and could not be considered a major. He'd also missed too many classes from being passed out in his dorm room. Heroine? No. Seven percent cocaine.

The struggle to clean him up. Make him presentable and keep him in civilization. Mycroft renting out a flat for Sherlock who had wanted to leave the Holmes mansion. Mycroft hoping the young man would become more responsible on his own. The visits to see if Sherlock was clean or functioning at least. No, Mycroft wouldn't have been surprised to walk in one day and find him dead. From drugs or some poor fellow he'd pissed off with his arrogance, Mycroft had phrased it.

Sherlock reached the last video clip knowing fully well that Moriarty knew almost everything that Sherlock had allowed Mycroft to know about him. What more could possibly be revealed in VID-KC-JM-27? It was the shortest of them.

_"What's Sherlock's greatest fear?" _

This was the one question that Mycroft did not have a ready answer for. Instead, he clasped his hands, leaning back in the chair and sighing. He was no longer in control.

_"I don't know…" _ Mycroft confessed.

"_You must have some idea—with your skills of perception." _

"_Perhaps I have an idea," _The eldest Holmes brother's voice was hollow. _"There was a relative we had. Some distant aunt or cousin. Our mental powers are inherited so certain members possess them to certain degrees. This person lost their control over hers. By the end she didn't know what was real or what her mind had created out of fiction and details she didn't remember fixing up." _

"_To not know whether or not you're the author of your own reality." _Moriarty reflected on the statement. Mycroft was no longer of use He sat there waiting for hi side of the bargain.

"_I can't tell you where the keycode is Mr. Holmes," _Moriarty was almost apologetic almost. _"But I can tell you where it's going to be." _Mycroft's frame went rigid.

"_Keep checking up on your brother, Mycroft, maybe you'll be able to find it there. In the meantime, no British citizens are going to be harmed. Set up whatever surveillance you want." _

The computer screen went black.


	7. Blood and Water

Chapter VII

Blood and Water

Static came from the speakers as Sherlock sat there clenching his jaw. Twenty-six years of resentment and frustration towards his brother flooded his senses and his chest tightened. It was the most outrageous betrayal he'd ever experienced. Mycroft had given Moriarty the perfect bullet to harm him in exchange for something that Sherlock knew was fake and harmless to society. Sherlock had almost died. If he hadn't had the foresight to see the possibility of Moriarty's plan he would have had to take the jump from St. Bart's for real.

He could still feel the way gravity had pulled down on him when his feet had left the ledge. Yet that fear couldn't be rivaled by the terror he had felt when he was introduced to Richard Brook. He had a moment of frightening doubt that he had tricked himself into creating a false reality. That he had blacked out in fits of insanity where he had not known what he was doing. It had been unfathomable at the time. Mycroft did not know how right he had been about Sherlock's deepest fear. How there was a possibility that one day Sherlock felt he could lose control of his mental powers and spiral down the path of insanity.

Sherlock pulled out the 'Baker Street' file from where he had hidden it. John must have known about Mycroft's surveillance on the flat. Mycroft had always involved him in matters of 'concern'. John would have been fine with just that. What had angered John is that he had figured out that Mycroft was the information source for Kitty Riley's and Moriarty's newspaper profile focusing on Sherlock.

John was loyal to the point of shunning Mycroft for what he knew that man did. That Mycroft, blood kin to Sherlock, had given everything that was needed to bring him down to his greatest nemesis.

The very fact that Sherlock knew the same blood that ran in Mycroft's veins also ran in his own made his skin burn. Society said blood was thicker than water. Society was wrong. Sherlock wished he could send a massive text to it like he could always do with brainless reporters and clueless policemen. But he couldn't. John's blood, compared to his, might be considered water, but he was the most loyal person Sherlock had ever encountered.

_But John left you. Could even the most loyal person betray you?_ Sherlock tried to push the thought form his mind. No. He couldn't afford emotions. Ever. Yet in succeeding in dismissing all thoughts about John only brought Sherlock back to the situation with Mycroft.

He couldn't understand why he was so upset about it. For years- his whole life—Sherlock had convince himself that Mycroft had no significance to his own existence. He never thought he'd care about whatever Mycroft did or said. Why was he caring now? Because deep down inside he had always thought that everything Mycroft had ever done for him was out of concern, even if his elder brother denied that sort of interest.

_Except Mycroft really didn't care_, conjectured Sherlock. He had traded his younger brother in for the sake of faceless strangers and protecting himself. Mycroft's touching 'concern' in making the 'Baker Street' file wasn't even real. _He was just looking for the keycode_, Sherlock told himself. Mycroft would probably never regret what he had done. To him, Sherlock was a burden, a bother, something that if gone would simplify Mycroft's life for the better.

What right did Mycroft have over Sherlock's life anymore? Certainly none, and he never had any. It upset him that he couldn't stop feeling bothered by all of it. He shifted his position in the chair. A small beep came from the area where he laid the camera phone down. Another message.

No one would blame you

020 7937 7217

So someone was offering him a phone number. He grasped the meaning almost immediately. Someone was giving him a channel to avenge himself. Sherlock had a feeling that if he called this number, Mycroft would face the consequences of his actions in office.

The question was did he want to? Did he really want to stir the waters? What was the use? Yet something deep inside of him found pleasure in at the thought of seeing Mycroft defeated for once in his life. Mycroft had always won… always stayed on top.

His personal phone went off, buried deep within one of his coat pocket. His brow furrowed as he pulled it out. He had received a text. He glanced at the caller id, and was immediately irked by what he saw. Mycroft was trying to get ahold of him. _Probably found out his key is missing __by now,_ Sherlock thought to himself as he opened the message.

Where are you?

-M. Holmes

The text was another one of the multiple pieces of evidence Sherlock could present as an attempt of Mycroft's to control a situation. Mycroft realized Sherlock was the one would had stolen the key off of his person. By now, he'd probably deduced that Sherlock had also been in his office too. Reflecting again on the text, Sherlock realized Mycroft was panicking. If Mycroft had figured out what Sherlock had learned or observed by the contents of his office, there was one place Mycroft did not want Sherlock to be. He didn't want Sherlock to be at Ripley's.

Sherlock decided to ignore the text and turned back to the message the mysterious regulator of the camera phone had left him. What was he going to do with it?

* * *

Mycroft's thumbs fumbled over the small keyboard of his personal cellphone as he composed another message to send his brother. He had sent two already and had received no response. Yet texts were a more guaranteed method of making sure a message got to his younger brother. Sherlock never answered phone calls, but there was always the possibility that Sherlock would read a text before discarding it. Mycroft pressed the send button again.

Sherlock

We need to talk. Where are you?

-M. Holmes

There was still no response after the fourth text. He decided he needed to find a different way to track down his brother. Mycroft resorted to something he had not used in years. Picking up his office phone, he pressed the correct sequence of buttons on the number pad.

"I need the global positioning of someone," he informed the man who had picked up on the other end.

"Mobile phone number?"

Mycroft gave him the digits of Sherlock's mobile

"Our system confirms that the location you are looking for is London's Ripley Building formerly known as the Old Admiralty."

Mycroft's head spun, and he swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat as his numb hand let the phone fall back into its cradle. _Ripley. Bad news… very bad news indeed._ There were files at Ripley. Files that Mycroft hadn't had time to move or get rid of yet. He hadn't thought it mattered. All the people that worked in the building who had access were his people—people who he could trust with anything.

Sherlock was in that building, and Mycroft felt his well-being was now in jeopardy. Why was his brother taking the time to meddle with Mycroft's affairs? What was his purpose? Old feeling of remorse rose in his chest. All he could see was a memory of John Watson's face when he had confessed to the man that he had made a mistake that had put Sherlock in danger. The doctor had condemned Mycroft for his actions… he had never felt like more of a coward.

Why was he feeling guilty? Sherlock felt no emotions at all. Certainly none towards Mycroft… why was Mycroft expecting brotherly affection? Because of all those late nights spent making sure Sherlock got off the street and into a bed. Making sure Sherlock didn't over-riddle his veins with cocaine and die. Mycroft had taken care of Sherlock's expenses, paying the man's debts in secret and paying enough rent in advance to convince landlords to take in his brother and give him adequate lodging.

Mycroft remembered the night at the morgue with Sherlock when they had thought Irene Alder had been brutally murdered. He had offered him the cigarette out of sympathy. Low-tar, of course, he didn't want Sherlock to get hooked on the drugs again. He had wanted to make sure his brother was okay. Wanted to know what he was thinking at the moment. Then Sherlock had pointed out a grieving family, asking why they cared so much when one died. Mycroft hadn't known what to tell him. Keep the armor on, that's what he chose. If Sherlock could be a machine, so could Mycroft. _Caring isn't an advantage_, Mycroft had told him. He hadn't said caring was a bad thing… just that it wasn't an advantage. Mycroft had never benefitted from caring so much about Sherlock… ever more so because he had always disguised his concern. It was a blessing when John had moved in. Mycroft didn't have to work so hard to help Sherlock then-he had a confidante who cared about his brother just as much as he did.

But Sherlock didn't care about Mycroft. Hated him with a passion, in fact. _Hated him with a passion_… the words brought back cruel memories. Hadn't he had said something to that effect to Jim Moriarty? Were they words that he had thought had sealed Sherlock's fate? Planning and executing the funeral had been demanding. Mycroft remembered the accusing glare John had gifted him with while standing across the grave site from him during the ceremony. Mycroft had thought he had buried his brother body only to have him return back to Baker Street almost a year later. He didn't think he could do it again if he had to. _No, _he decided, _he_ _never wanted to do it again_.

Mycroft needed to get to Sherlock. He needed to explain himself. Explain the video files. How it had seemed like a hopeless situation. How it had seemed like Moriarty had him trapped in a corner. How in the end, Mycroft had realized he had been wrong. Even a Holmes can make a mistake, Mycroft reflected drily. Sherlock should know that.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes had not left the screen of the camera phone for at least five minutes. His body was rigid, but the immobility of his figure did not compare to the way his mind raced like a crazed locomotive not in control of its own engine. Was his revenge just as simple as a few numbers? He never felt this need before. Never felt like he needed to establish his dominance over something. The feeling was bitter-tasting in his mouth… he felt tainted.

His eyes wandered over to the computer screen frozen on a screen-shot of one of the video clips. Sherlock had gone back and re-watched some of them. The shock did not dissipate the second time around. The blurry image he had paused on was the moment Sherlock had decided he had heard enough of Mycroft's voice. On the screen his brother's frame was bent over in his chair, and Moriarty's face glowed with satisfaction. Weak. That's what Mycroft was. He had tumbled head-on into a power play.

A small key tone sounded and Sherlock looked at the camera phone again. His thumb had inadvertently hit the dial button. Bringing the device to his ear, Sherlock could hear the faint ringing of the other end. Once, twice, three times. Then it ceased only to be replaced by a pattern of shallow breathing, as if the person who had picked up did not want Sherlock to know his presence.

"Hello…" Sherlock's voice was low, trying to detect who the respondent was. "Who are you?" Sherlock tried again. Only silence met his question.

"You gave me a message," Sherlock explained slowly. "It said no one would blame me." He listened to the breathing for a few more seconds before he heard the resonating click of the line being disconnected.

* * *

Somewhere else in upper London a man who was tired of always being second best received an email. In a continuous power struggle to clamber up the levels of the inner government, Thomas Wilkins felt the position he desired just out of his reach. The frustration was unimaginable, gnawing at his insides constantly reminding him of the one department that was superior to his own.

They called it the "Queen's inner circle", a group of high positioned men and women who headed all the other branches government, even having influence over the Parliament and its decisions. The elite group was led by a Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Wilkins deeply despised the man. The amount of influence he had over the Queen was ridiculous. If any ordinary British citizen could have witnessed the dependency the monarch had for Holmes the nation would fall into shambles. The country would learn that the Queen had no back bone when it came to the advice of Mycroft Holmes.

She always followed his words blindly. No, not always. Wilkins remembered a situation when the Queen had adamantly refused to patronize one of Holmes's projects. Something about Germany or another nation that was threatening a British airliner. Holmes had proposes a preposterous plan. Wilkins remembered how the man had coined it: The Flight of the Dead. Wilkins himself had managed to convince other members of the 'inner circle' against it. It took effort though. Much effort. He had had to explain the resources that would be need (and wasted) as well as the ultimate scandal that would occur if word got out the British government was stealing and utilizing the corpses of its citizens.

In the end, under the pressure of the other member of her cabinet, the Queen had refuses to sign off on Mycroft's plan. Flight 676 Heathrow as to be canceled due to mechanical issues. Which it was. Reports showed it. Wilkins found pleasure in the fact that Holmes was probably sour over cashing in his flamboyant plan to having to declare a malfunction cancelation that occurred almost every day in the nation's airports. It made him ordinary.

Chuckling silently to himself, Wilkins opened the message he'd just received. Multiple files downloaded to his computer instantaneously at the click of his mouse button. They were government files, records of citizens, flight schedules, international affairs, secret service intelligence. A masterfile icon popped up on the corner of his screen.

"_Bond Air_," Wilkins whispered the words aloud to himself. What on earth was _Bond Air_?

He selected the icon, and a series of pre-flight records were free for him access.

Flight 007. Double-oh-seven. Bond Air. James Bond. Britain's fictional spy hero who constantly was saving the nation from disaster.

After twenty minutes of perusing the information sent to him, Wilkins was fairly certain of what was in his possession. It was Holmes's 'Flight of the Dead' carried out in full. The man had defied the Queen and had prepared for it all that same. What else was the man hiding? Wilkins wondered to himself. He couldn't wait to find out.

Picking up the receiver of his desk phone, he dialed the number that would put him in contact with someone who could help him discover it.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes decided there was no time to waste. He had to get to the Ripley Building immediately. Standing up from his desk chair, Mycroft once again pulled out his mobile to call Anthea and ask her to prepare a car downstairs. With Henry for a driver if possible, not Matthew because he drove to slow.

"I'm sorry, sir," Anthea responded to his instructions. "I can't do that. There are people here to see you, sir."

"I don't have the time for appointments today, Anthea. Have them reschedule for tomorrow." He sighed. The day just kept on getting worse. "I need the car, now." Exiting his office, Mycroft closed the door behind him with his free hand and walked quickly towards the elevator doors.

"These men won't let you leave, Mr. Holmes." Mycroft could detect other voices on Anthea's end of the line. "One of them has a warrant."

"Warrant?" Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks.

"They say they represent Her Majesty," Her voice trailed off. Perhaps she was confused, Mycroft didn't care. He tried to think for a moment. _What had Sherlock done? Oh, what had he done now? _


	8. Cuffs and Links

_Hey guys! So so so sorry for how long it took to post this chapter. Got a new job and the hours are long (less time to write L). But been working on a new Sherlock fic too! Check out "The Third Holmes" if you like this fic and want another taste of my writing. Thank you so much for all the support for this fic as well. It's been great!_

_ Thanks, and review if you like!_

_ V. Jenkins_

John had decided to give Moriarty's blog simulator a chance after all. Since he had nothing better to do, he had chosen to keep a daily log of the details of his captivity. His fingers brushed the keys of the laptop instinctively, and he found that he hardly needed to think about what he was writing.

Day 26

Today I woke up at 08:32 according to the clock in the room (Time records may be wrong—I don't know if the clock is set right). Moriarty did not grant breakfast this morning. Spent morning thinking about Harry and when we were kids together. I remember the time we snuck out at night just for fun. Harry's idea, not mine. We got in trouble in the morning when Mum found our beds empty. Think maybe I'll patch things up with her if I ever get out of this. I never thought I'd miss her.

I'm really craving one of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. I also wouldn't mind some of her tea. Moriarty doesn't give me tea here. It's been forever since I've had a cuppa. I wonder how Mrs. Hudson is getting along. I hope Sherlock isn't giving her much trouble. What is Sherlock even doing?

Lunch came at 13:23. Food isn't really good here. I'll never complain about anyone's cooking again. I just want some quality food, for a change_

John stopped typing here. Even his own words were beginning to sound mundane, but there was only so much he could write about after twenty-six days. He published the unfinished post. It would have to suffice as the day's record because he didn't want to write anymore. It saved as a fake internet link. The fake links were superficial imitations. John would be the only person who could follow them. Sometimes he asked himself what was the purpose? But deep down he knew why he was doing this. He was doing this because was _something to do_. Without it, John felt he would have no purpose whatsoever. This daily log had become his own ritual, something for him to look forward to tomorrow. It's what got him through one day into the next. It was the only thing that kept him moving forward. John feared what might have been the case if he didn't have it.

* * *

Sherlock did not know how to react to the call from Scotland Yard. Lestrade was requesting his presence but not being straightforward about facts. All he would say was that they had made an arrest and someone was being held for investigation. Would Sherlock please take the time to come down the station? Immediately. Sherlock had pushed for more information only to be disappointed by Lestrade's lack of cooperation. So, more out of frustration than desire, Sherlock hired a cab to take him to the New Scotland Yard in order to satisfy his curiosity.

To his annoyance, Sherlock observed that Anderson and Donovan were with Lestrade in the conference room he was led to. Just what he needed, he thought sardonically, another tribulation to his already awful week. He didn't feel like dealing with fools today, and the fact that Donovan was trying to be nice to him ever since St. Bart's was sickening.

"Hello fr-," Donovan caught herself, falling silent. "Hey, Sherlock." She mumbled instead.

"Go ahead, call him freak. He's still an ass anyway," Sherlock heard Anderson tell her under his breath.

"And you're still an insufferable, brainless ponce." Sherlock interrupted loudly. "Nice to see you again, Anderson." He gave the man a poisonous half-smile.

"Let's settle down now, boys," Lestrade interjected himself into the situation, standing up from the chair he had been frequenting.

"Lestrade, you can dismiss you sycophants," Sherlock gestured to the other two officers. "I doubt I'll need their assistance and usually you do quite well on your own without them."

Lestrade paused, taking in Sherlock's words. Finally he said, "Thank you."

"It's not a compliment," Sherlock warned him. "You're still as incompetent as a mechanic trying to do biomedical surgery on a patient instead of rotating a tire."

"Somebody's in a bad mood," Anderson remarked, a bit irked at the consulting detective's brash mannerism.

Sherlock turned on him, rolling his eyes. "Oh, _shut up _Anderson!"

"Leave!" Lestrade pointed Anderson and Donovan to the door. They followed his instruction and left without saying anymore words. Once they were alone, Lestrade turned once again to Sherlock. "Now, I'm going to ask you to be civil and cooperate Sherlock. None of our games, okay? Let's just work together for once."

"Work together?" Sherlock repeated, puzzled. "Work together on what? From what you said, you've already made an arrest. There's no case for me to work on. Unless, of course, you were wrong, which wouldn't be a first-granted your history on such things-"

"Sherlock," Lestrade cut him off. "Listen, we just called you in out of formality. With who is involved—we just thought, you know, it was the right thing to do. It's not even my department."

"Who's involved?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock…"

"Who's involved and what's the crime?" Sherlock repeated.

Lestrade shook his head, "I'll let you talk to him, okay?"

Sherlock crossed his arms, his fists resting on the rough fabric of his great overcoat. Lestrade walked to the door, opening it and beckoning someone towards him. A quick hushed conversation ensued and Lestrade kept the door open as the other man walked away. Through the crack in the door, Sherlock could see someone being led to the room they were in.

When the door of the conference room opened, Sherlock observed his brother, Mycroft Holmes, enter the room. He still wore his customary three piece suit, as if the officers were too afraid to offend the man by asking him to change. Sherlock's eyes alighted on the hands locked in cuffs, restrained by the small links of chains that bound the silver bracelets together. Mycroft's frame was slightly hunched, bent as if struggling under the weight of something Sherlock didn't know. Guilt? Embarrassment? Probably the latter, Sherlock concluded.

Looking up, Mycroft's grey eyes locked onto Sherlock's, the meaning of their message clear. Sherlock had won this battle. Mycroft was trapped…a defeated giant.

* * *

Lestrade had left them alone in the room. The brothers sat down at the table, each facing the other. Sherlock waited for Mycroft to start the conversation…he didn't want to be the first one to talk. The eldest Holmes shifted in his chair. The metal cuffs rubbing against the skin of his wrists and pressed uncomfortable into his bones. Finally, he let out the sigh that he had been holding in for that last few hours.

"What have you done, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked bluntly.

"What have _I _done?" Sherlock inquired, surprised. "Why are we questioning my actions now, _dear_ brother?"

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly taking a moment to pause and rub his temples with his shackled hands. "This is about what you found at Ripley's, isn't it?"

"What I found at Ripley's was a series of tapes documenting you handing over my life story to my nemesis James Moriarty. If I hadn't been able to foresee what was going to happen at St. Bartholomew's, you would have been the reason for my death." Sherlock answered thoroughly. "Which now that I think about it, John probably knew about, though he never mentioned it after my return."

"John did know about it," Mycroft told him, slowly. "I told him myself about… my actions. My—rashness about how I dealt with Moriarty and the case surrounding him."

"That would explain John's behavior towards you these last few months," Sherlock concluded.

"Yet, John's out of the picture now, I understand," Mycroft countered. "So why are we talking about him when they're other problems to be dealt with? You've handed me over to the authorities without much remorse. Should I be proud of your objectivity?"

"You are not the only one capable of betrayal, Mycroft." Sherlock's face remained flint. You're just the one with more to lose at the moment. It's true, Mycroft, I've lost John, and through that I've learned that I have nothing left to lose."

"So I've gathered," Mycroft's eyebrow's raised slightly. Something clicked in his brain, and he realized Sherlock was emotionally shaken from what he had discovered in the last twenty-four hours, even if he didn't outwardly display it. Sherlock's actions were revenge for what he thought was Mycroft's betrayal. What _was_ Mycroft's betrayal.

"I've gotten exactly what I deserved," Mycroft stated quietly. It was wasn't a question. It was an epiphany.

Sherlock remained quiet in his chair, realizing what was happening in his brother's mind.

"I have to serve my time," Mycroft's voice was hollow, his eyes overcast. His empire was crumbling, his power failing. And Sherlock was present as witness. "Serve my time," Mycroft echoed. "Pay my dues."


End file.
